Chapter 6 - The Shakedown
The rain was falling softly against the panoramic windows facing the East River. It was nearly midnight.
Norah was alone in the kitchen, double-checking the walk-in coolers and reviewing the inventory lists for tomorrow’s grand opening. Her sous-chef and prep line had been sent home three hours earlier to rest. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigeration units and the rhythmic crackle of the wood-fired oven, which had been banked down for the night to maintain its core heat.
A sharp, metallic knock echoed from the front entrance.
Norah frowned. The heavy oak doors were locked, and the brass sign clearly read *CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PREP*. She dried her hands on her apron and walked through the dining room, peering through the glass sidelight.
Three men stood under the awning.
They did not look like construction inspectors or purveyors. They wore track jackets beneath leather coats, heavy gold chains visible at their throats, their postures aggressive and impatient. The man in the center was thick-necked, with a scarred eyebrow and a crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once.
Norah unlocked the deadbolt but kept the heavy brass security chain engaged, cracking the door four inches.
"We’re closed," Norah said firmly. "Opening is tomorrow at five."
The scarred man grinned, revealing a gold crown on his upper canine. "We ain't customers, sweetheart. Name’s Jimmy 'Bones' Marcone. We’re here to handle your municipal sanitation and district safety compliance."
Norah’s stomach tightened. In her months of research into city operations, she had learned enough to recognize the dialect of low-level extortion. The Marcone family was a splinter faction from North Brooklyn—violent, desperate, and notorious for preying on new businesses before they could establish legitimate connections.
"Our commercial sanitation contract is already signed with the city district," Norah said coldly, her hand remaining firmly on the door edge. "And our security systems are fully certified. We don't need your services."
Jimmy Bones let out a wet chuckle, leaning his face closer to the gap. His breath smelled of stale tobacco and cheap bourbon.
"See, that’s where you’re mistaken, little girl," Jimmy said, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "This block is Marcone territory. You want your pretty glass windows to stay in one piece? You want your delivery trucks to arrive without their tires slashed? You pay the district association five thousand a month. Cash. In advance."
Norah felt the adrenaline surge through her veins, but the fear was instantly swallowed by the cold, stubborn anger that had defined her entire life. She thought of David trying to bully her; she thought of Todd filming an old woman. Men who traded in fear were all the same.
"Get off my property," Norah said, her voice dropping into a low, lethal calm. "Now."
Jimmy’s smile vanished. He shoved his heavy leather boot into the door gap, preventing her from slamming it shut.
"Listen to me, you stupid bitch," Jimmy hissed, gripping the edge of the wood until his knuckles turned white. "I don't care who your investors are. Tomorrow night, this place will be packed with fancy critics. It would be a real tragedy if someone tossed a couple of Molotov cocktails through your dining room windows while people were eating their pasta. Five grand. Tomorrow at noon. Or we burn this place to the brick."
Norah didn't scream. She didn't plead.
She reached to the service stand directly beside the entrance, picked up a heavy, cast-iron fire extinguisher, and with blinding speed, slammed the base of the metal cylinder directly onto Jimmy’s boot.
A sickening crunch echoed through the doorway, followed by an agonized howl.
Jimmy stumbled backward onto the wet sidewalk, clutching his crushed foot and cursing violently. His two thugs rushed forward, reaching beneath their jackets, but Norah slammed the heavy oak door shut, threw both deadbolts, and secured the reinforced steel drop-bar into its brackets.
Outside, Jimmy was screaming profanities, beating his fists against the reinforced glass. "You’re dead! You hear me?! You and this whole damn building are burning tomorrow!"
Norah backed away from the door, her chest heaving, the cast-iron extinguisher still gripped tightly in her hand. Her hands were shaking violently now that the adrenaline was beginning to ebb.
She walked slowly back to the service station, set the extinguisher down, and pulled her cell phone from her apron pocket.
She had one emergency contact saved under speed dial. A number given to her four months ago in the library of Villa Russo, with the simple instruction: *Call this if the world ever tries to push you.*
She pressed the icon.
The phone rang exactly once.
"Norah," Luca’s deep, calm voice filled her ear, cutting through the terror in the room like a beacon. "What is it?"
May you like
"Luca," Norah said, trying to steady her breathing. "We have a problem."
***
